13th to 31st May

Angra do Heroismo, on the island of Terceira in the Azores, is a beautiful little city, understandably a UNESCO Heritage City. I love it. It makes me feel happy just to be there and walk along its charming streets, revelling in the delight of handsome and colourful houses, with their ornate wrought iron balconies and shuttered windows. Glimpses inside homes show prettily patterned tiled walls and an air of calm.

It was first settled in the 15th century and you can readily imagine its historic past when this was the capital of the Azores and, being central to the North Atlantic, became a focus of trade and power, bustling with commerce, piracy and fighting (at different times Spanish, English, French and Dutch all fought and squabbled in the area). 

Nowadays it’s peaceful – though American airforce maintains a NATO presence and controls the island’s airport. Mid-morning most days, I’d stop for coffee and some sort of irresistible cake, before wandering on through museums, old forts, monuments to heroes of the past and especially the central public gardens, Jardim Duque da Terceira, which are so utterly delightful that I called in many times. 

If you add in the charms of Portuguese hospitality and friendly helpfulness, some beautiful rural walks, and huge dollops of interesting history, it’s hard to beat the Azores. Being a bit early in the season, weather was still cool and sometimes wet, but just about warm enough for swimming. Most days the sun shone brightly and the crowds of visitors who swamp Angra in the summer season were absent – though one talented pianist and singer on a boat drew in a small crowd for her two performances (below).

After ten days fixing bits of Henrietta, meeting fellow sailors from Devon and elsewhere, and waiting for better forecasts, it was time to leave the Azores and head for England and home.

I sailed gently out of the anchorage at  Angra do Heroismo. This time it had been my only port of call in the Azores. The final leg across the Atlantic to the Isles of Scilly is about 1,100 miles. Thanks to strong winds (and the magic of Iridium wind forecasts to help find a good route) it took eight days, the quickest of the several times I’ve sailed this route.

The friendly Scots captain of a passing superyacht, Adix (goodness, it’s over 60 metres long), gave me more accurate up to date weather information, before he altered course to miss the worst of a coming gale. I should have followed his example, but didn’t.

As a result, Henrietta and I had two very uncomfortable days with gale-driven rain when I felt queasy, damaged my creaky body and almost lost the spinnaker pole, not to mention being soaked through several times.  My feet have yet to warm up and Henrietta is still damp. Not for the first time she tells me she’s not a submarine.

First anchorage in Britain was the sheltered Cove at St Agnes in the Isles of Scilly, one of my favourites. It offers pleasing gentle walks as well as the indulgence  of draft beer. And for me, the joy of seeing busy guillemots, gulls and cormorants – so much more cheery than the sea birds of the tropics, and much more numerous. Britain has a lot to offer (but it’s really very chilly this May).